


A Murder in Ink

by Ormond_Sacker



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Gen, John Watson's Blog, Mentioned Mrs Hudson, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:09:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5690551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ormond_Sacker/pseuds/Ormond_Sacker





	A Murder in Ink

London had turned into a cold and rainy place. Autumn was well on its way and the days were getting shorter. The droning of the wind made the people in the city aware of the great elemental forces. The streets were empty but for a few fearless battling the wind and the rain on foot. Days like these were when one would take a cab could one afford it.  
Sherlock Holmes looked down at the street through the rain-streaked living-room window of the flat at 221B Baker Street. It was already dark outside and the headlights of the cars and cabs below threw reflections onto the wet street. He let out a deep sigh, paced over to the mantel piece, then back to the window. “Give me something to do!” he exclaimed as he stared out the window again.  
His violin lay thrown in one of the armchairs. The bow was still tightened. “I do need to take better care of this fiddle,” he thought. “It is after all a Stradivarius.” Sherlock had acquired it from a broker in Tottenham Court Road for quite a bargain. He picked it up and started playing, hoping to still his restless feelings. Their landlady, Mrs Hudson, was just passing by outside in the hallway. She popped her head in and asked Sherlock to please stop sawing away on the violin like something out of the Incredible String Band. “I do have other tenants, you know.” She knew better than to wait for an answer, and quickly shut the door again. “She is right,” he thought. He was not in the right mood for playing the violin. Playing this instrument was an activity better suited for reflecting on a case, rather than waiting for one. He carefully untightened the bow and put it, together with the violin, back in its case and leant it in the corner of the sitting room. “My life is so boring, so empty of events, it is not worth writing a book about, not even a short story,” Sherlock muttered to himself.  
Dr John Watson, Sherlock’s flatmate and very good friend since many years, had left early this morning for the clinic on Salisbury Court, just off Fleet Street, where he worked. “I wonder how long he will manage to be employed by this clinic?” Sherlock thought to himself. It was already Watson’s third place of work this year. The two of them had had a great deal of cases during the last two or three years, which of course interfered with Watson’s day-time work as a GP. But for a month or two it seemed like no crimes were being committed in London and the vicinity. The market was down for consultant detectives such as themselves. In these times of economic crises one would think that crime rates would go up, but apparently this was not the case.  
As consulting detectives, they had not heard of any interesting cases for quite some time. Usually the Scotland Yard, their most loyal client, bombarded them with unsolvable matters. Not so lately, however. Every now and then Sherlock received a phone call, but they all bored him, even insulted him. Watson was an accomplished blogger and potential clients often requested their help on his blog. Sherlock logged on to the site to see if anything new had come up. The message board was as empty as last time he checked, approximately 15 minutes ago. “Is there a greater force preventing criminals from committing crimes?” Sherlock hopelessly sighed to himself.  
To pass the time Sherlock was just about to conduct an experiment in his makeshift laboratory in the kitchen when suddenly the phone rang. Sherlock switched off the Bunsen burner and swiftly leapt for the phone, where it was buzzing away on the coffee table. “Let this be the case we have been waiting for,” he thought before he answered the phone. “Sherlock!”  
“I‘m sorry to disappoint you. It’s just me,” he heard Watson at the other end of the line. “I assume you expected your favourite friend at the Yard to call for help regarding an intriguing murder,” Watson continued. “I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix,” Sherlock replied. “I cannot function without a puzzling conundrum! Where are all the murderers? All the fraudsters and embezzlers?” he went on. “I can clearly tell you need a change of scenery, Sherlock,” Watson replied. “I am done here for the day, so why don’t you meet me at the pub?” he suggested.  
The pub Watson referred to was The Tangled Skein at 145 Fleet Street. It had become their local pub lately, because of the proximity to Watson’s clinic. “I was just about to start an experiment which I offered to help out with. The International Society of Explosives Engineers contacted me some time ago, and I …” Sherlock started, but was abruptly interrupted by Watson. “For goodness sake, Sherlock! Not another explosives experiment in the flat! Poor Mrs Hudson will soon put us on the street.” “No she won’t,” Sherlock replied. “But I suppose I can postpone it another few days. I will see you at the pub.” Sherlock hung up the phone, grabbed his coat and deer stalker, and decided to take a cab since the weather had not improved one bit.  
The wind whistled down the streets and the rain beat fiercely against the window of the cab. A little while later Sherlock made his way into the narrow alley that lead up to the pub. He entered the landmark pub and was hit by the loud voices from all the lawyers and journalists that usually frequented the place along with a few lost tourists. He nodded at the pub keeper in the chophouse on the ground floor. He wondered in which of the seemingly random rooms connected by higgledy-piggledy passageways Watson would be hiding out in. Watson always made it a game of trying to sit in the least predictable place. The fireplace in the restaurant room to the left was throwing dancing shadows in the ceiling. Sherlock walked over to the staircase in the hallway beyond the entrance and made his way up to the first floor. It was usually quieter upstairs. “And there he is, my dear Dr Watson!” Sherlock exclaimed. Watson was just ordering two pints of Old Brewery Ale, being the ardent CAMRA enthusiast that he was. He handed one glass to Sherlock, and they sat down at a table with two comfortable leather armchairs next to the crackling fireplace. They were quite the odd couple together, Sherlock being long and lanky, and Watson being a great deal shorter and with a belly starting to show his liking for beer and food.  
Apart from Sherlock and Watson there were a group of Swedish tourists sitting at one table; an older man alone at one table; and a man and a woman at another table. The tourists were going to see a play or musical in the West End afterwards judging from the collection of theatre pamphlets they were all looking at. “I am certain they will choose Mamma Mia,” Sherlock said to Watson. The older man puffed on a pipe and twined his moustache as the smoke spiralled up towards the ceiling. He was typing on a laptop and had some papers and a black notebook next to him on the table. “An old-school journalist, you do come across one of them every now and then,” Sherlock thought. The couple was sitting with their heads close together deeply engaged in a conversation. “Judging from the way the man keeps pulling his hands away when the woman is trying to hold them, it is evident that he has a family at home and this woman is just his mistress,” Sherlock told Watson. “It never stops to fascinate me how you need to analyse every single person in a room. An endless source of entertainment, you are,” Watson replied.  
Sherlock and Watson recited their days to each other, had a few more pints and some food before they decided to call it a night. It was almost midnight by the time they were back at the flat at Baker Street. Watson, who actually had been on his feet the whole day, decided to retire to his bedroom. Sherlock was still edgy, but decided to take his laptop to bed and do a thorough search through all the usual websites. Maybe he had missed out on something. There might be a crime out there for them to solve. Four hours later he was done. “I am somewhat exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity into a non-conductor?” Sherlock said to himself and turned off the light. Not a minute later he was asleep.  
As Mrs Hudson prepared Sherlock’s and Watson’s breakfast the following morning, there was a knock on the door. She opened it, and it was Police Commissioner Lestrade. “I need to meet with Mr Holmes immediately,” he said. “I am sorry Sir, he is not yet awake,” Mrs Hudson replied. “Well awaken him then, what I have to say is crucial he hears,” he said back with an irritated tone. As Mrs Hudson walked towards his door she was greeted by Sherlock rapidly putting on his clothes. He had seen Lestrade’s car as it stopped outside the house, and knew he must have a new and interesting case for him. What else would be the reason for his early visit? “Mr Lestrade, what a pleasant surprise seeing you this rainy morning,” he said calmly, despite his curiousness to his visit. “What could I possibly help you with this time?” he went on with a subtle smile. “Mr Holmes, a man was murdered a few days ago, and late last night a woman was murdered in exactly the same manner. And we are at loss with the two cases. It seems there have been no break ins, no robberies, nor any fights in sight. Yet, both their throats are cut open,” Lestrade said and continued “It seems we are in need of your help, Mr Holmes.” “We beg of you,” he said lowering his voice, hoping Sherlock would miss the last part. “Well, since you beg and I have freed my schedule I might as well take a look,” Sherlock said in a calm way despite his immense excitement. “Mrs Hudson, be so kind as to wake up Dr Watson. Surely there is not a moment to be lost,” he said, as he put on his deerstalker.  
As they approached the building on 18 Appold Street, Sherlock stepped out of the car and started exploring the surroundings. The building from the 1850´s had the typical Victorian features. The light brown somewhat narrow bricks went perfectly with the white sculpted features surrounding the broad rectangular shaped sash windows. The first floor on the side of the road was a built-in terrace with wooden features and thin windows. The thick moss on one side of the roof of the building was clear evidence that the building was a few years older than the rest on the street.  
It was still early so the sun had not yet risen. The thick fog and ongoing drizzle of the heavy night’s rain made it difficult to see anything but one’s feet so they stepped in to the building. When entering the foyer there was a large hallway with beautiful polished wooden floor, high ceiling and the wallpapers seemed as if they had not been touched since the house was built, with a slight yellow colour and details looking like large diamonds in a light brown shade. “It certainly is a marvellous building,” said Watson, as he glanced at all the handmade paintings of people from the Victorian era, hanging on the walls from floor to ceiling. “Well yes, I suppose it is,” said Sherlock. “If that is what rocks your boat,” he continued, not paying any attention to the architecture what so ever it seemed.  
They walked up the curved stairway to the second floor while Lestrade explained the findings so far. “This woman´s name was Josephine Bell. She worked as a writer for the newspaper The Daily, and the last victim, Sheridan Hope, also worked for a newspaper, The Morning Star.” He continued, “They both had opinions and wrote quite a lot about the matter that England should not send troops to Iraq, so we believe the murderer has other thoughts regarding the issue. We have found her calendar that says she had a meeting last night at 9 pm. After talking to the receptionist they found out that the victim was the only one left in the building by that time, so there are no witnesses to question.” Without any answer from Sherlock or evidence that he was at all listening, Lestrade went on, “We have left the scene status quo for you and the body has not been touched other than the necessary examination to determine her state.”  
Watson walked over to the body. She was still sitting by her desk and it looked like she had not put up much of a fight, if any. Sherlock began to examine the office space. This office was nothing like the building had implied. It was very modern but small. The entire office might have been 15 square metres. All the walls were clean and white but one that was filled with cut out news clips and photos. The floor was a light grey parquet floor and there was a large retro metal desk. The chairs where simple metal chairs with a soft orange cover. There was one chair on each side of the table, but it looked like the one on the opposite side of her desk had not been moved. “She died sometime between 9.30 and 10 pm, I would say, and the cause of death is evidently the massive loss of blood due to the cut,” said Watson. Sherlock went over to her desk after carefully examining every news clip and photo on the wall. All clips on the wall were of debates or articles regarding the situation of Iraq. Josephine´s head and right arm were leaning on the desk while the left hung down her side. It seemed as she was just about to write something on the piece of paper in front of her but she never had the time. “Watson, there does not seem to be any sexual abuse either, would you not say?” said Sherlock. Without any answer he looked to see what Watson was doing. Seeing him staring at the many hundreds of photos on the wall of soldiers and casualties, he said, “Do the pictures and articles of Iraq make you anxious, Watson?” “No, not at all, it just struck me that it has only been a few years since that could have been me in the photos,” Watson replied in a low voice. Even though he said the pictures did not bother him, he seemed a bit wistful after looking at them. “Good! You are here, well and very much alive, so maybe we can get back to the case? The pictures are of no use to us in regards to the case anyway,” Sherlock said in his usual ignorant way. Without responding Watson went back to where the body was. “So, no sexual abuse?” said Sherlock. “No, no abuse at all, I would say,” Watson replied. “Detectives, did you all make sure to use the shoe covers while entering the crime scene?” Sherlock asked as he examined the many shoe prints in the room. “Yes, we all did,” the policemen said, talking over the top of each other. “Well, if that is the case, then we need to find the owner of the shoes to fit the shoe prints that cover the floor with dirt. It appears our murderer has been walking back and forth many times. It looks like they would be of size nine,” Sherlock stated, and continued, “Watson, is there anything else of interest you have noticed on the woman?” “No, other than a small stain of ink on her hand that I assume she got while writing, she is spotless I would say,” claimed Watson. “Oh, well then. What was the name of the person she was meeting last night, Mr Lestrade?” asked Sherlock and briskly walked back over to the desk. “Here is the calendar. The name of the person is said to be Darnell Amoun, and the gentleman from the other case that the victim Mr Sheridan Hope was meeting, was named Keme Hall. But there is not a single person called either one in all of England, so we assume they are fake names,” Lestrade answered, as he tried to hand the calendar to Sherlock. Sherlock looked at Lestrade without taking it. “Darnell, you say, and… Keme was it?” He mumbled to himself, and said with a satisfied expression, “Come on Watson, we are done here. There is nothing more of interest to the case for now.” Watson followed him confused down the stairs and out of the building. “I don’t understand, Sherlock,” said Watson. “Of course not,” he answered and continued “but you will soon. First we need to stop by the gentleman’s murder scene and the mortuary.”  
They left for the first crime scene, the home of the diseased Mr Sheridan Hope, located on 74 Brick Lane. While in the taxi Watson asked, “So, Sherlock, what did you find that made us leave so quickly?” “Well, Watson. It seems the murderer has left us a message. There is more to this mystery than what the police think,” Sherlock said. “What do you mean mystery, Sherlock?” Watson replied. “I am not sure of the message just yet. But the names of the persons that our victims met are somewhat disturbing. But let us not get ahead of ourselves before we have more evidence, my dear friend,” Sherlock responded and left Watson more confused the rest of the way.  
When they arrived at the address they were greeted by a police officer outside the door. “Hello Mr Holmes, I was awaiting your arrival.” The police officer took out his keys and opened the door to the apartment to let them inside. The building itself looked like it had not been taken care of in a while. The wood around the windows was mouldy and in the staircase hints of cigarette butts and gum could be found here and there. But once inside his apartment it was very clean and well organized. The furniture was of different styles but matched perfectly together anyway. The murder had taken place in a small study behind the kitchen area. “It does not seem to have been a fight here neither,” said Watson as he walked over to the victim’s desk. “Do you see the footprints, Watson?” Sherlock asked, yet not waiting for a response. He walked next to every footprint back and forth from the kitchen area to the murder scene. “Size nine,” he mumbled and continued, “and you are certain no one has been here since the murder took place on Wednesday?” said Sherlock and looked at the police officer, who just nodded his head as an answer. “The murderer must have been here for at least an hour after he committed the murder, if not more,” Sherlock said. “What made you come to that conclusion?” Watson asked, without lifting his head to see what Sherlock was doing. “First of all, neither Mr Sheridan nor Ms Bell wear size nine shoes. And if I have been here for less than thirty minutes and not walked even half as many footsteps as our mystery man, then it is just simple logic, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock answered and continued, “The question you should ask is instead why he was here so long after. What was he doing here?” “Do you think he saw someone outside and couldn’t leave? Or maybe it was not a planned murder and he panicked?” Watson asked. “Good questions, Watson, but I believe there is some deeper explanation to his long stay that will soon reveal itself.” “Ok, well Lestrade explained earlier that he had been found on the floor by his desk,” Watson said and continued “By the look of the amount of blood that was here it must have been a large man”. The policeman looked confused and asked “How do you know it was a large man simply due to a dried stain of blood?” Sherlock interrupted just as Watson was about to explain and said “well, as everyone should know, the more body fat a person has, the more he bleeds. Obviously!” The policeman said nervously, “Of course,” and continued, “We found articles and blogs that suggested Mr Hope was not supporting the involvement of England in the Iraq war. I thought you´d be interested since it seems to be the issue of the murders, no?” Sherlock responded “Well, thank you. Yes, that is what he wants us to believe. And besides he might be right, why should England get involved with the Americans problem with Saddam Hussein? But that is another mystery. The good thing is at least he is consistent.” Watson broke the silence by saying “Sherlock, how do you think the murderer pulled this off? No break in, no fight, and yet they both seemed to just sit still and await their death?” Watson kept looking for clues on the man’s simple wooden desk. “Well, my dear friend, that is what I hope the mortuary will tell us,” Sherlock replied.  
Watson continued “If you look at his calendar it says that he had a meeting with this Mr Hall at 8 pm and the other victim died between 9.30 and 10 pm, so the murderer seems to want the sun to have set, which makes fewer witnesses. So, then he must have planned the murders, you reckon?” Without answering the question Sherlock moved towards the door. “Are we done here already, and what do you think this is about, Sherlock?” asked Watson. “Not enough data yet, Watson my friend. We cannot theorize more before we have all the evidence. To the mortuary we go,” Sherlock said as he waved for a taxi.  
While in the mortuary Watson examined the body thoroughly and after what seemed as forever he said, “I cannot see anything else here besides the simple fact that he died from the loss of blood just like the other victim. And he also has an ink stain on his wrist, which is common, I guess, since they were both journalists.” “Splendid!” cried Sherlock “On the contrary, Watson. This is a crucial piece of evidence,” he said as he went up and examined the victim closely, trying to see if he had any evidence of fight, something under his nails or other important findings. Watson looked at Sherlock baffled yet anxious to hear what he had to say about the evidence he found so splendid. “There are still a few matters I yet have not figured out, but I will,” Sherlock said and continued, “Come on Watson, let us go to The Tangled Skein and get ourselves some beverages and I will explain our findings so far.”  
It had started to rain cats and dogs again. They pulled their coats tighter to protect themselves from the rain. It was a rather futile attempt since they got soaked to the skin anyway, while waiting for the black cab. 20 minutes later they made their way into the alley that lead to the pub. Sherlock glanced across the premises as they entered the pub they visited on regular basis. It was empty on the bottom floor except for the barkeeper, who greeted them. As they walked across the dark wooden floor Sherlock identified the smell from the comfortable leather armchairs and a strong lingering scent of cigars and cigarettes as they made their way to the staircase. When they reached the first floor he glanced at Watson, who looked back at him with the same old face he had a tendency to display when he knew Sherlock was on to something. “All in good time, Watson. Let’s order our drinks first,” he said, as the friends made their way across the red patterned carpet to an empty table. “Two pints of the usual, Garreth,” Sherlock called out to the barkeeper. “I will bring them right up,” he answered, and turned on the tap. Sherlock observed the surroundings and saw the same couple from the day before, once again sitting in deep conversation. As Sherlock had noticed before they were not a couple, and now he was certain. They had chosen this place to not be seen by any prying eyes. The woman had tears in her eyes. Therefore, Sherlock assumed she had received the news, that the man sitting across from her with a wedding band had given her yet another excuse not to leave his wife. He saw the older plump man with the handlebar moustache sitting at the same table as last time, with his notebook and some papers spread around the laptop. “He must be pleased with whatever he is writing,” Watson said to Sherlock, and continued “look at that content expression.”  
As Watson watched Sherlock taking a sip from his ale, he said, “I have thought about the murders, and the information Lestrade has provided us with, and I still feel none the wiser. We are missing something, and your blatant lack of discloser makes me wonder what conclusions you have come to.” “You are correct that I have come to some conclusions. First of all I do not think the matters of Iraq is the motive for the murders, they are just there to side track us.” “How did you come to this conclusion, Sherlock?” Watson replied. “If you would like to make an impact, there are bigger and more important targets to go for,” Sherlock said, and continued “and then there is the no forced entry and lack of struggle at the crime scenes.” Sherlock took another sip of his ale before he continued. “To do that kind of precise cut would be impossible if the victim had put up a fight, which suggests that the victims were subdued in some way.” “You mean they were poisoned?” Watson asked. “Possible, but I am not sure yet. I could not smell anything on the bodies and there were no signs of any at the crime scenes either.” Watson took a brief moment to collect his thoughts. “From what you just said, it suggests that the murders were planned in minute detail.” Sherlock smiled and leaned back in his seat. “Correct John. Our killer is thorough, precise and well educated, probably in the field of medicine. However, there are still some imminent and imperative facts that yet have not revealed themselves. Therefore, my point is, we should remain open for other possibilities.” Sherlock put his empty glass down and rose from the armchair. “I shall go to the British Library to see if anyone has taken out any books on toxicology. You, Watson, can check with your colleagues at the hospitals around the area to see if any thefts of tranquilisers or other anaesthetic drugs have been reported. We will meet here again in a couple of hours.” Watson got up, leaving his glass half full and followed Sherlock out from the pub.  
A few hours later Sherlock made his way into the pub again. Sherlock recognized five men having loud conversations, smoking their cigars and enjoying some whisky and cognac. He walked up to the first floor where Watson was already sitting. “Fancy a cuppa?” Sherlock asked. There was an old man slouching in an armchair by the stairs in the corner with his eyes closed, and a pint of dark ale standing in front of him on the table. Sherlock remembered he had seen the man before on the streets around the pub, one of the local drunks. He sat down opposite Watson. He picked up the scent of tobacco, turned his head and saw the writer still sitting at the same table as before smoking his pipe. Yet again his notebook laid open next to the laptop on the table, and the man seemed lost in his thoughts. “Sherlock, where is your mind wondering off to?” asked Watson with a puzzled look on his face. Sherlock gathered himself and said, “I did not find anything to bring us closer to solving the case. I assume you didn’t have any luck either?” Watson shook his head. “No thefts except for some morphine.”  
Time went by as they discussed the case and they realised they had come to a dead end. They had no more leads than before. Sherlock’s frustration grew stronger by every minute, and therefore they decided to return to Baker Street.  
Days passed without them getting any closer to solving the case. They had worked with all the clues and looked at all loose ends from different angles without any results. Now even Watson was starting to feel impatient. As they were drinking their evening tea, the phone suddenly rang. Watson detected an eagerness in Sherlock’s eyes when he answered. “Commissioner?” He went quite for a moment. “Perfect,” said Sherlock with a thrilled smile upon his face. “Do tell me more!” Another moment of silence followed. ”Excellent, we will join you shortly,” he said and hung up. “Watson, we have to leave, there has been another murder.”  
It was dark and raining outside when Lestrade met them on the steps of The London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE). He informed them briefly that the victim was Dr Ormond Sacker, a history professor at the school. As they made their way up the stairs to the crime scene through the almost empty building, Sherlock turned to Watson. “No matter the motive of the killer, I believe that solving Professor Sacker’s murder gives us our best chance to solve the murders of Mr Hope and Ms Bell as well.”  
They approached the office of the late Dr Sacker. Outside the room there were a few policemen talking. Sherlock entered with brisk steps and stopped as he looked around the murder scene. He observed the knocked over chair and papers laying on the floor. There were obvious signs of a struggle. He walked up to the desk while putting on gloves and saw the professor’s calendar. He flipped through the pages and stopped on today’s date. He immediately spotted one appointment that stood out and turned to Watson. “As said before, the killer is trying to communicate with us, my dear Watson,” he said and spun back around to the man lying on the floor. “Lestrade, I assume the person Ataro Gizem who Dr Sacker was meeting this evening does not exist either,” he said as he bent down over the victim. “You are correct, as usual,” Lestrade responded.  
“Watson, come here and have a look, can you notice any similarities from our other victims?” Sherlock asked. Watson came around the desk and looked at Dr Sacker who laid in an unusual small pool of blood. “Well, as with the other victims I can see that the jugular vein has been cut with precision, however this is not the cause of death. His heart stopped beating before the vein was cut, which explains why the pool of blood was so small,” Watson answered and continued as he examined the body, “I also notice a stain of ink at the professor’s right hand. I put the time of death no more than three hours ago at the most.” “You are correct Watson, but look at this,” Sherlock replied and pointed out another ink stain on the man’s left arm. “It is not likely that the professor would have a puncture wound on his left arm when he obviously was left-handed. With the other victims it was believed that they had caused the ink stains themselves while writing. However, this is not the case.” “How do you know he was left-handed?” Lestrade asked standing in the doorway. “Pay attention, Lestrade, and I will come to this,” Sherlock replied in a condescending voice. “Look at the man’s desk, his coffee cup is placed on the left side with the handle facing right, his phone is also on the left side. And then we have the obvious sign, he has a left handed mouse for his computer,” Sherlock continued. “I am now also certain they were poisoned, and my best guess would be that our murderer did not expect such a large man, so the first injection of the poison was not enough. I assume Dr Sacker realised what was about to happen, hence the evidence of a fight. During the fight I recon our murderer gave the victim the second jab,” Sherlock said, and went on, “This is also the reason why there are two ink stains. He had to give the man one more injection in order for the poison to take effect. What our murderer did not anticipate was that the body of the victim could not handle a second dose of the same size. So instead of paralyzing the victim, it killed him. I would say the puncture wounds come from a fountain pen dipped in a poison called curare, leaving them paralyzed. Curare is a completely odourless poison, which explains why it was so hard to detect. The fountain pen explains the ink stains on the victims.”  
Sherlock went over to the desk, picked up the calendar, flung it open and pointed to the name Ataro Gizem and said, “Our murderer is clever, clever indeed!” “How would you say our murderer is clever?” Watson asked. “All three fake names are not chosen randomly,” Sherlock explained and continued, “As said before they are there to give us a message. For example, the name Darnell Amoun. Darnell comes from the Old English word derne which means hidden secret, and gizem means mystery in Turkish. All the other names have similar meanings and combined they all mean mystery/not what it seems. So, as mentioned before, these murders have nothing to do with Iraq, or any matters regarding the political situation. It was just a decoy to throw us off. The motive, nonetheless, is yet to be solved.”  
“However, I know who the killer is. We have seen him many times, Watson, and he has seen us.” Sherlock walked over to the mess of paper, scattered across the floor, and bent down. “Our killer was not expecting a fight from the professor. The murderer was holding something in his hand and part of that object was ripped out as Dr Sacker encountered him.“ He paused and looked up at his audience, smiling. “I would guess that he did not expect that such a small piece of evidence would be his fall.” Sherlock triumphed as he grabbed a crumbled piece of paper, lying among the rest. He held up the small note, studying it as he was about to reveal the culprit’s identity. “This small piece of paper has uncovered the truth, and it tells us that the murderer is no other than…” He went quiet, staring at the torn out page. “Who is it?” said both Lestrade and Watson simultaneously. They waited for Sherlock to reveal his discovery. “We must leave now,” said Sherlock as he headed to the exit. “Are you feeling alright? Watson asked. “I said now, Watson!” hissed Sherlock as he passed a confused Lestrade. Watson ran after his friend. As soon as they came out from the school they caught the first cab they saw.  
Sherlock sat silently, staring into the emptiness. It was quiet in the cab and the only noise came from the car engine and the rain that pelted against the windows. Watson looked at Sherlock, thinking of something to say to break the silence that surrounded them. He inspected his muted friend who was completely still except from his right thumb, which was moving back and forth, stroking the piece of paper that he found at the crime scene. “You acted quite unusual back there, even for you Sherlock.” He waited for a reply but the silence was still hanging over them. “I haven’t seen you this puzzled since The Hounds of Baskervilles case.” There was still no reply from Sherlock and Watson was starting to grow anxious. “It does not take a detective to draw the conclusion that there is something wrong, Sherlock. What does the note say that worries you so much?”  
Out from nowhere Sherlock shouted to the cabbie to pull over. The cab drove in to Henrietta Street and as soon as they stopped, Sherlock went out and reached for a crumbled cigarette package from his left inside pocket. He took out a cigarette and covered it with the palm of his hand in order to avoid the rain from soaking it. As soon as he lit it, he took a deep drag and leaned against the closest wall. Watson told the cab driver to wait and then he stepped out from the warmth of the cab and into the cold and wet London weather. Another moment of silence took place and the only thing that spoke was the heavy autumn rain, playing its rhythm upon the steel plated cars. Sherlock took another drag from the disfigured cigarette and decided to finally speak.  
“Even the weather of London disapproves of my smoking habits, wouldn’t you agree John?” he said with a kind of dryness in his voice. Watson smiled and shook his head. “It seems that way, my dear friend,” he answered as he stroked his chin. “But I am more curious about what the piece of the page said that would make you so wary, not how the force of nature handles your addiction.” The two friends looked at each other for some time. Sherlock looked down at the cigarette that had died out from the rain. He flung the cigarette butt and fished out another one from the package, this one even more disfigured than the last. He lit it, took another deep drag and watched the smoke, slowly dancing out of his mouth.  
“It is obvious that the piece belongs to the journal of our dear friend at The Tangled Skein.” “You mean the old journalist?” Watson replied quickly as he drew closer to the wall trying to avoid most of the rain. “Correct, my friend. I see your memory is still intact. This piece is the same kind of calligraphy paper from his notebook and the same piece can tell us quite a bit about his character as well.” He took the journalist’s note from his pocket and put it under his nose, starting to smell it as Watson observed him studiously, waiting anxiously for the conclusion. “Ah yes, just as I thought,” he said as he returned the piece of paper back to his pocket. “This man wants to be remembered for his writing and not for his profession in medicine.” Watson wrinkled his forehead. “How in God’s name can you determine which kind of legacy he wants to leave behind, just through smelling a piece of paper from his journal?” he asked, with a hint of scepticism in his voice. Sherlock scoffed at Watson’s allegation and shock his head. “Don’t be silly, John. Even if your mind is only above average, I am surprised that you would suggest that I could. Of course I can’t determine such a thing just through smelling it. It is only a small part of a larger composition, my dear friend.” He took a last drag from the cigarette and stubbed it against the wall. He continued, “The journal we saw at The Tangled Skein is a so called Moleskin, a French made notebook that was quite popular in the 19th and 20th century and was used by many famous artists, such as Oscar Wilde and Ernest Hemingway. So our killer probably wants to see himself as a man of the creative craftsmanship. But now back to the piece of paper. The thickness suggests that a whole piece of A5 paper would weigh approximately around 2,7 grams, which is excellent for ink work but not good enough for paint, which would need thicker paper.” He stopped and started to listen to the rain that had begun to subside. He reached for the piece of paper from his pocket again. “Furthermore, the paper’s surface, as you can see, is a little toothed.” He showed Watson the crumbled paper. “And that is for the sole reason to help the paper to grab the ink and to avoid it to bleed into the fibres. He wants his scribbles to be eternalised and that is why I smelled the paper, to be sure of my observation.” Once again Sherlock put the piece of paper under his nose and smelled it. “The paper is acid-free and has been treated with chemicals that are pH-neutral, which is seven if you wonder. Therefore, all papers, books or documents with any historical, legal or of any significant value are always treated in this manner, to survive the ageing process and to avoid the paper to become yellow and starting to crumble. In other words, to stay eternal, the same reason why the good doctor chose this kind of paper.” Watson took a brief moment to let the information sink in. “Masterful deduction, Sherlock, as usual. However, how does this affect the case in any way, I might ask?” Sherlock smiled and patted the clueless Watson on his shoulder. “It changes everything, my dear friend. This essential data, is the smile on Mona Lisa to this case, the crown jewel.”  
“Tell me, John, what is the source of inspiration for your writing?” Watson was surprised to receive a question with such an obvious answer. “From our adventures of course, and you are well aware of that.” He replied and Sherlock lightened up. “Exactly! From real life events, the best source for inspiration.” Watson started to put the pieces together. “So you are saying that he committed all those murders to use them in his writing?” Sherlock reached for another cigarette from his pocket only to realize that the package was empty. A moment of frustration took place before he answered Watson’s claim. “Correct. Our culprit was probably suffering from a writer’s block. To demolish that wall he assumed the role of the villain, to create his own detective story, that's the reason why he stayed at the crime scene after the deed was done, to take notes while his memory was fresh. He left us all those clues on purpose. He didn't take those people’s lives for their political beliefs, but for the sole reason to create a plot.”  
As Sherlock ended his speech, he walked to the cab, opened the door to the backseat and made a grand gesture, applying that Watson should jump in. Watson looked both amazed and puzzled as he stepped into the warmth again. As soon as Sherlock had sat himself down next to him, Watson opened his mouth. “But if.” He hesitated and started to stroke his chin, trying to put his thoughts into words. “It is quite extraordinary that you can figure out all this from a piece of paper that is not bigger than the palm of your hand Sherlock. Indeed, it is remarkable. But what I do not understand.” Watson hesitated again. “How should I put this? How is it that this information has startled you? You have figured out who the culprit is, his motive, even why he is using a specific kind of paper. So please tell me, why is this putting so much weight on your chest?”  
Sherlock reached forwards to the cabbie and told him to take them to The Langham Hotel at Regent Street. He leaned back into the seat and turned to Watson. “It doesn’t, not at all. I just never had the chance to tell Lestrade and his flock of bloodhounds about my discovery.” Watson sighed. “Could you just tell me, Sherlock?” he asked. Sherlock turned his head and started to stare out the window. Once again silence hung over them, but as they turned into Cranbourne Street he turned back to Watson. “It is what is written on the piece of paper that is making me wary. It cannot be explained. It is beyond my grasp of comprehension,” he said with a crackled voice. Watson had never seen his friend this perturbed before. “Of course you will make sense out of it, you always do,” Watson said, trying to comfort his agitated friend. “I will not!” Sherlock roared “this can’t have a logical explanation and I cannot in all my life figure out how he has succeeded to achieve this.” Watson was on the edge of bursting out in frustration but kept his calm. “Then please tell me what is written on it, as I have been asking since we left LSE.” Sherlock took a deep breath, in an attempt to collect himself. “As I told you before, he is writing himself a detective story, or a crime story, as they call it these days. However, the strange thing is who the main characters are.” He looked at Watson, waiting for him to get an epiphany, but Watson replied him with a puzzled expression. “We are the main characters” he continued “he is writing about us. That is, however, not the element of surprise, not at all. The chock value is that he describes my thoughts, things I never said out loud.” He took out the ripped out page from his pocket. “How could he know about my thoughts? My doubts about how long you could manage to be employed at the clinic? My boredom and frustration about that the economic crises have not raised the crime rate? It cannot be explained.” Watson just stared at Sherlock, wanting to reply but was left speechless after the unsettling news. Sherlock continued “I do not know if he is controlling our every move or if it is a coincidence. Nor can I say if he is aware of this. All I know is that we have to confront him and end this chapter.”  
That was the last thing that was said before they pulled into Regent Street. Before they exited the cab Sherlock grabbed Watson’s arm. “Do you have your Saure with you? In case we have to take action” he asked and Watson nodded as a reply, still baffled after Sherlock’s explanation. They stepped out of the cab, facing the Langham Hotel. The rain had decided to be absent as a thick fog had started to appear. Sherlock observed the fog creeping around them, decreasing their vison. “It seems that the weather wants a dramatic setting for this confrontation.”  
They entered the Langham Hotel lobby, and the two friends were the only souls there except from the young receptionist. The lobby was a grand sight and the whole room was filled with marks of luxury. Their footsteps echoed on the cold marble floor as they walked up the stairs to the information desk. The woman welcomed them with a broad smile. She had her hair tied in a ponytail and her dress code was very proper. “God evening, Sirs. How could I assist you?” she greeted them, still smiling quite intensely. “We are looking for an older man with a handlebar moustache, in his early 60s and somewhere between 180 to 190 centimetres tall,” Watson kindly replied to the woman’s question. The receptionist continued smiling and leaned her head to the side “I am sorry, Sir. But I am not allowed to share that kind information. Hotel policy,” she answered even more kindly than Watson did. Sherlock was about to break the kindness that the two of them shared, but choose not to. He laid his hand on Watson’s shoulder. “Could you take over from here, would you kindly?” he said apathetically. “Are you sure?” Watson quickly responded to Sherlock’s odd request, knowing his love of confronting peoples’ ignorance. “I am not in the mood to explain our business to a naïve little girl that hates her job, but stays because of her complex affair with her boss’s wife.” The receptionist abruptly stopped smiling and went quiet as Sherlock walked away from the reception. “You are not exactly making it easier,” Watson mumbled.  
As Watson tried to turn the tide of battle to their benefit, explaining to the upset woman that they are on police business, Sherlock quietly observed one of the flower vases that was placed next to the marble pillars by the stairs. The flowers were a bouquet of a dainty blend of crimson and green roses. Watson had finally received the needed information about the man in question. He was walking towards Sherlock, but slowed down as he saw him gently stroking one of the roses. He had never seen his old friend showing this kind of natural interest in an object with no scientific value. This was clearly a new element to his character. “It is strange, John, indeed it is strange. All things, our power, desires, food, are all really necessary for our existence,” he stopped and leaned towards the rose that he stroked earlier and smelled its scent. “But this rose is something extra. Its smell and colour are an enhancement of life, not a condition of it. We have much to hope from the flowers.” The uncomfortable silence from the cab earlier took its place again and the lobby went quiet. The only noise came from the young receptionist nervously talking on the phone. “Are you feeling all right, Sherlock?” Watson asked carefully, almost afraid to disturb the precious moment. Sherlock, who was staring at the roses, did not answer his question. Watson cleared his throat and continued, “However, I have the information that we need. He is on the fifth floor and is staying in room 514.” Sherlock turned around and was back to his normal state of mind. “Why didn’t you say so right away? Time is of essence.” He started to walk towards the elevators and Watson followed, shaking his head.  
They waited for one of the elevators to arrive to the ground floor. Watson turned his head to Sherlock, frowning his forehead. “How did you know that he stayed here?” Sherlock who was watching the numbers on the elevator display, gave him a surprisingly short answer. “He displayed the hotel’s information card on his table at The Tangled Skein.” Watson who was expecting a long section of deduction, was almost a little bit disappointed. “So, no deduction?” he asked, waiting for him to reveal an ace in his sleeve. “Ratiocination, my friend,” was Sherlock’s reply, to Watson’s disappointment. Their little chat was interrupted by the elevator’s recorded voice, announcing that their elevator had reached the ground floor. They stepped into the mirror-filled shaft and pushed the button for the fifth floor.  
It felt like it took ages for the elevator to reach the fifth floor. Sherlock had brought out the mystery note again, stroking it back and forth with his thumb. “Sherlock, this might sound strange, but did you also get a déjà vu feeling?” Sherlock gave Watson a questioning look. “I mean, your speech about the rose, it feels somewhat familiar, almost like if you or somebody else have said it before.” Sherlock scoffed at Watson’s claim. “My dear Watson, I would remember if I would have said such a thing, and anybody else for that matter. It was just a weak moment, that’s all.” The recorded voice gave them the sign that they had reached their destination. As the doors opened, Sherlock put the note back in his pocket. “It is time, Watson. It’s time to meet the creator of this mystery of ours.”  
As they walked toward room 514 the duo could hear a faint sound of music. The closer they got, the clearer the music became. As they stood outside the door, Sherlock could hear that the song playing was Madame Neruda by James Scott Skinner. “In honour of the Violinist of the Queen. He is toying with me!” hissed Sherlock. Watson grabbed the door handle; it was locked. He exchanged looks with Sherlock and he nodded. Watson pulled out his gun and kicked in the door. The room was dark and the only light came from a desk lamp where a man was sitting, intensely writing in a black notebook. The man stopped writing and looked up at the two men that had barged into his room. He looked shocked, but somehow not surprised. After acknowledging the invaders’ presence, he went back to his work. Sherlock took one step forward. “I think you have to end in midsentence, my good Sir. The police are on their way and you have nowhere to escape,” lied Sherlock, who had not shared any information with Lestrade. “Your story has come to an end.” The man stopped and put down his pen gently. The three men stared at each other, saying nothing. The man finally opened his mouth. “Sometimes a man has to take extreme measures to complete his work, detective,“ he said in a calm and polite tone. The song came to its final note and the man reached for his gun, lying on the desk. Before he had any chance of grabbing it, Watson fired two shots. As the gun shots rang out, the man fell to the floor.  
Watson turned on the light switch. As the darkness disappeared, Sherlock hurried over to the body. After a very short examination he gave Watson a sign, signalling that the man was dead. Watson holstered his gun and Sherlock started to examine the room. The room itself was elegant, but small. It consisted of a queen size bed, a night stand with small stereo, two paintings of Queen Victoria, a wooden cabinet with a mirror hanging over it, and the working desk where the man sat. Sherlock searched the room from top to toe, looking behind the paintings for hidden deposits and opening every drawer in the cabinet. It was not until he searched underneath the bed where he found his first clue. He dragged out a retro doctor’s bag in black leather. He studied it from all possible angles. A small metal plate was placed in the middle of it on one of the sides. “To my dear Ignatius, from yours truly, Jean,” mumbled Sherlock before he tried to open the bag. It was locked. Sherlock took out a bobby pin from his pocket and started to pick the small lock. A few seconds later, the security that the bag had to offer, was cracked. Inside he found a case, the size of an envelope, containing various surgical tools, including a scalpel. He continued to search the bag, finding folders, records, a stethoscope and finally, three small bottles labelled curare. “This man is without a doubt guilty. All the items that were used for the killings are lying in this bag,” Sherlock said, with a satisfied smile on his lips. Watson, who stood on lookout by the door, replied with a nod. Sherlock got up from the floor. He looked over to the gun laying on the desk. “An Enfield Revolver. A government-owned and standard issued sidearm for the British Army at the end of the Victorian era. A collector or an ex-military, perhaps?” He browsed through all the things on the desk. Through all the papers scattered around, he found a medallion of some spiritual purpose. “It seems that our friend was a member of a spiritual movement of some kind.” He looked at the medallion for a brief moment, examining it. After coming to the conclusion that it did not have any value to the case he went over to the notebook. Sherlock looked through some of the pages. Watson could see that he was troubled. Sherlock stopped reading and looked at Watson. “He have been writing down our every steep, every thought, and every rainy movement. I wish that he hadn’t made the decision he did, I would like some answers,” he said, disappointed. As Sherlock came to the last written page, he noticed that the whole encounter had been written down. Without reading the last paragraphs he could see that the man never had the chance to finish his work, as he ended in midsent…..


End file.
